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From Spirit's plane to ER, I
Waited 4 hours post triage.
Watched a middle aged white lady wail herself to the front of the line for her pain was the only thing that mattered in a room of other equally ill patients.

My body shocked and perhaps still in the sky.
It was this moment that solidified that I had matured: grown to know long suffering love more that the other traits. Patience was as rooted as my African ancestry, my black race.
This is an observation poem the stings me like Bee mid meditation & reflection. There is so much to unpack and release when the pain is this bad. I am grateful for another outlet that allows me to share my journey.
Pain is like a novel

One that you can't go on reading any longer

The torments, the burden of the story, the shattering of dreams...

Seems like a mirror reflecting the darkest corner of your heart

So you shut the novel down and without a bookmark hide it beneath a hundred good books

But every once in a while you feel the urge to open it

To touch the scars of its pages, to reminish the tragedies of every chapter...

And yet it only remains in your mind!

I often wonder if such books of people were gathered...

Don't you think it would have been enough to fill a library?
Gratitude for reading this!
-elixir- Oct 11
The distorted reflections of hopes
turn golden with an air of dope
through each line I inscribe
on the face my life, alive
through sickness
and by darkness.
Norman Crane Sep 17
see the mirror mirror the sea
thyme scents sense time
me and you sleeping sleep in you and me
waves disquiet these quiet ways
and continents wear down down where continents end
barques dock while wild dogs bark
at oars or at
redcurrants, sand beaches, beeches and recurrence
our morning mourning hour
terns whirled there / their world turns
The challenge here was to create a poem in which each line is itself plus its sonic reflection (see the mirror / mirror the sea). The theme was the seaside.
Kellin Sep 12
You're gonna find yourself lost in another
EP Robles Sep 11
i look within the mirror     (things are not looking good)
a mind of a man;  a soul of    a woman:  when my dreams
stretch out love surrenders.    
My body, savaged by pain   (i am as a peasant)
undermines Love.
  -- makes romantic spirits
leap into the bottom of a
deep chasm of Earth.
   The soul can never get old    a marching army of night
invaded me as a weapon; but as i breath i repel
the hordes with my heat
i sought a woman so strong
,      intelligent and soft: a body of skin, of fire,
of firm and thirsty milk!    
i hold her bountiful *******  ! and hug warm and womanhood.
   still i feel i am sinking:
   so now you know.  my thirst  and desire for woman without
end -- a wavering tight road!
   so now.  I know there are cemeteries so lonely, for my kind.  
   Dead bones that do not move.  but all dead and
   living hearts move through a tunnel!

:: 09.09.2020 ::
Ceyhun Mahi Sep 3
My autumn-hair grows grey, my eyes are tired,
The dawn is far away from me. I'm not the same,
And not the one who I sometime desired;
I just can only remember my name.
Time does pass by so quickly, and I try
To grasp the moments with my writing mind,
But still, most things of fleeting life pass by
As if it's nothing, not mend to be found.
And so, if past and future is unknown,
I'll focus on the moment of the present:
A bed, fresh air, the morning-sun now shown,
And lulled to sleep by every flower scent.
This is the ideal life I'm always seeking;
"Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing."
The last verse belongs to John Keats.
Robert L Sep 1
I’m older if not wiser
Can’t *** like a geyser
And I think I can hear the bells toll.

They’re a little less distant
And a bit more insistent
And no longer seem quite as droll.

Out the corner of my eye
I think to espy
A dark figure with malevolent intent.

A voice with a tone
Like the scraping of bone
that leaves me whining and spent.

Is it getting closer?
Is it there in the toaster?
I worry perhaps more than I should.

But I’d be lying
There is no denying
I wish now that I’d done more good.
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